


Fortuitous

by SallySkellington18



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, PTSD John, Panic Attacks, Past Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 00:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3360863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SallySkellington18/pseuds/SallySkellington18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John needs groceries.  Sherlock needs to calm his mind.  Neither find what they were looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fortuitous

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my Sherlock Valentine's Day pen pal, Tumblr user feelingfeelsfeelsfunny. She likes PTSD John and a comforting Sherlock. This isn't exactly that, but it's a variation on the theme :)

It had been over a month since Lestrade called Sherlock with a new case.  Sherlock hadn’t heard a word from the DI since the case where Sherlock flitted around the crime scene, refusing to follow protocol and insulting every officer and technician that got in his way before berating the grieving sister-in-law into confessing.  Afterwards Lestrade yelled at Sherlock, calling him an insensitive bastard. Sherlock expressed his opinion that not only had the crime been dull, but his unconventional methods had _solved it for them_.  The DI sent his consultant away with the threat of never being called to a crime scene again.

The first few case-less weeks were spent working on back experiments. After that Sherlock updated the layout of his website and then reorganized his countless binders of experiment notes by level of potential usefulness and date.  Soon, however, he took to torturing his violin for hours at a time, only stopping to chain smoke on the fire escape.  Mrs. Hudson declared the upstairs flat a disaster area and refused to acknowledge her headstrong tenant.  Sherlock hadn’t eaten in days.

Sherlock couldn’t make his mind _stop_.  The lack of cases, even dull ones from his website, was infuriating and he needed something to do before his brain rotted away to nothing.  It only took a few days to begin contemplating old habits.  After that, it took less than six hours for Sherlock to don his coat and leave the flat in search of old ‘acquaintances.’

-

John was walking back to his cramped and unremarkable bedsit with a Tesco bag in one hand and his cane in the other.  It had taken most of the morning to convince himself to make the short trek to the grocery store.  There was hardly any food left in his flat and, although the doctor in him knew he wasn’t eating nearly enough, he didn’t fancy going another day scraping by on tea and stale biscuits.  Now at least he had a loaf of bread, some jam, and a bag of apples to add to the mix.

About three blocks from John’s building a woman, walking quickly and texting furiously, knocked into John from behind. It wasn’t enough to send him to the ground, but the woman didn’t stop when John stumbled. Standing on the pavement, watching the rogue texter disappear around a corner, John felt his situation more clearly than he had in days.  His leg ached with a bone deep pain that worsened every time he considered the word ‘psychosomatic.’  Some evenings his hand shook so badly he could barely make a meal for himself.  Two mornings ago he was able to cinch his belt one hole tighter.  More often than not he fell asleep contemplating the illegal firearm in his desk drawer.  Just the night before he scoured his mind for secluded public locations in London where he and his gun could disappear permanently.

At that thought, John felt his face flush and his breathing rate pick up.  His knee was about to buckle as he hobbled into the nearest alley and allowed himself to collapse against the brick wall.  John knew a panic attack when he felt one, but as he focused on not hyperventilating, he was also trying to push the images of sand and blood, the feel of grit in his teeth and under his nails, out of his mind.  He barely noticed as he slid down onto the dirty ground, his bad leg sprawled out in front of him and his plastic carrier bag ripped and spilling its contents at his side.

-

The neighborhood south of the river where Sherlock found himself was not a nice one.  The buildings were run-down and graffiti-covered and the streets were dirty.  Even though it had been over 8 months since Sherlock walked these streets, he knew where he was going and what he was looking for.  Later, he would admit to himself that he had been preoccupied with the mere idea of a baggie of powder to calm his mind.  Otherwise, he would have noticed the man in the alley much sooner.

Sherlock had been standing in the alley for about 30 seconds when he heard ragged breathing.  He cautiously moved towards the sound, thinking it was a member of the homeless population he could drill for information. However, when Sherlock rounded the skip, he found a compact blond man, huddled up and clutching his face in his hands, clearly in the tail end of a panic attack.

 _‘Interesting,’_ Sherlock thought and crouched down a few feet in front of the sitting man.  He let the man continue to regulate his breathing and waited to be noticed.  It only took a few minutes.  Sherlock watched as the blond took one last fortifying breath before opening his eyes, and then-

“Who are you?” The man, who was much shorter than Sherlock but suddenly had Sherlock pinned against the opposite brick wall, growled into Sherlock’s ear.  Sherlock was startled to find his wrists pinned against the brick and a strong arm pressed against his chest, but kept his expression even.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he answered evenly, and then, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The hold on his wrists and the pressure against his chest increased as the man growled again, “What did you say?”

“Oh, I abhor repeating myself,” Sherlock sighed, keeping his voice calm and unaffected.  “Where did you serve, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The man looked at Sherlock steadily for a long moment, the flicker of a question in his eyes.  He seemed to come to a silent decision and released his hold on Sherlock before taking a step back.

“Afghanistan.  How did you know?”

As Sherlock automatically recited his deductions about the man’s haircut, tan lines, overall bearing, and obviously traumatic wound, he watched as the expression on the blond’s face turned from suspicious to- was that awed?  _‘I must be reading that wrong’_ Sherlock thought.

“Brilliant.  That was absolutely bloody brilliant.  How did you know all of that?” The man was almost beaming at Sherlock.

“You know, that’s not what people usually say,” Sherlock attempted to sound off-hand in his comment.

“Oh? And what do they usually say?” The man quirked an eyebrow.

“Piss off,” Sherlock spat.

And then, the suddenly exceptionally interesting man in front of Sherlock laughed.  It was a real and full laugh, emanating from the man’s belly and falling gorgeously- _‘Gorgeously?’_ Sherlock thought to himself a bit hysterically- from his mouth.

“John Watson,” the man smiled and stuck his hand out as his laughter died away.  “Nice to meet you.”

Sherlock took John’s hand. “Do you assault all of your new acquaintances?”

A blush rose quickly on John’s cheeks. “Oh, no, sorry about that,” he muttered sheepishly.  “It was the adrenaline from the panic attack, I’d imagine.”

Sherlock gave John one long, lingering glance and before he could change his mind, offered, “I know a good Japanese place not far from here, if you’d like to join me.”  He waved a hand at John’s ruined carrier bag. “It looks like your groceries are ruined.”

John looked at Sherlock and then at his bread, jam, and apples scattered in the filth of the alley.  He thought of the awful little bedroom waiting for him a few blocks down the road.  Then he smiled.  “You know what?  Yeah, Japanese sounds great.”

Sherlock returned the smile and swept out of the alley, coat fluttering dramatically behind him.  As John followed him out of the alley, Sherlock surreptitiously send a text to one of his homeless contacts requesting they retrieve John’s cane and bring it to the restaurant where they were headed.

John didn’t notice that he was walking beside Sherlock with a hint of his old military strut.  All thoughts of mind-stoppingly good cocaine had been banished from Sherlock’s head.  Neither man realized it, but they had both just changed the other’s life irrevocably.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this little fic. I'd love to hear what you think in a comment.
> 
> -RJ


End file.
